Growing up on the New Jersey shore in the best part of the Garden State, close enough to the beach to enjoy it whenever we wanted, yet far enough away from it to be blessed with rich dark gardening soil, allowed us to have a back yard full of juicy Jersey tomatoes . During those glorious Jersey summers, there was often a line of tomatoes on the kitchen counter just begging to be devoured. We had thick slices with dinner, wedges in salad, or we just simply bit into them like apples. Our Sunday breakfast was often bacon and eggs. I remember being 7 or 8 years old, frying bacon and scrambling eggs. My mother had taught me how to estimate the right amount of milk for each egg, how to beat the eggs, how to melt Crisco in her special little egg frying pan, tipping the pan to just the right angle to coat it completely, and then pour the eggs into the pan, waiting until just the right moment to begin drawing the edges of the cooked egg mixture in to the center of the pan. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and buttered white toast with a few tomato wedges was a perfect breakfast then and it still remains my favorite breakfast to this day.
In my fifth grade class at Central School, Mr. Hooker taught us about atoms. We learned the different parts of the atom: electrons, protons, neutrons, and the teeny tiny center of the atom, the nucleus. The illustration in our science book was an egg. There was a teeny tiny white spot in the yolk, which was referred to as the nucleus. This teeny tiny white spot in the egg, my science book explained, was the chicken embryo. What?? That teen tiny white spot was a baby chicken? My 11 year old mind reeled in horror. I had been eating baby chickens?? Obviously, I knew eggs came from chickens, and chickens hatched from eggs, but I had never thought I was eating chicken embryos. I loved scrambled eggs, but the thought of eating chicken embryos just seemed…..barbaric. I also know where bacon comes from but I never experienced a similar horror when munching a BLT.
After that science lesson, I could not prepare eggs the same way again. I began removing those teeny tiny white spots (which I honestly had never even noticed before) with a fork and rinsing them away in the kitchen sink. Whether I was scrambling eggs, making a cake, or beginning my Christmas cookie marathon, I took those embryos out of my eggs. Somehow watching them swirl away down the drain seemed more humane than actually eating them. This idiosyncrasy is usually evident only when I’m cracking the eggs myself. Ordering eggs in a restaurant? No problem. Eating eggs that someone else has prepared? No problem - unless I’m watching my husband make eggs. He knows I’m watching, so he’ll remove the teeny tiny white spots for me.
For more than 40 years this has been my egg routine. Yes, when the kids were small, they asked what I was doing and I explained my reasoning to them, just to help them understand why I have this weird need to take those teeny tiny white spots out. I never told them they had to make eggs the same way I do. I figure it’s my hang-up and my problem.
This past June my son Josh visited for a week and we met his girlfriend Kayla for the first time. Kayla told us a story about how she had made scrambled eggs for Josh when they began living together. He was very happy that she had made him eggs. Then he asked her if she had taken the teen tiny white spots out. She said no. He said he couldn’t eat those eggs because his mom always took the teeny tiny white spots out. So Kayla began her own teeny tiny white spot removal tradition.
Along with consciously teaching your kids to always say “please” and “thank you”, you never know what else you are unconsciously teaching them.
The eggcentricity lives on!
